


Limerence

by Memoriam



Series: Opposition [1]
Category: Subspecies
Genre: F/M, Horror, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-06
Updated: 2009-01-06
Packaged: 2017-10-02 16:24:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Memoriam/pseuds/Memoriam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something that might have happened, but probably didn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Limerence

It was an ongoing madness; but not, he thought, one that had any great power to lead him astray. He would have been helpless to resist its call, even had he wished to; but he reveled in its grasp, surrendering himself gladly to its hypnotic influence. There were some things that could only be what they were; this was one he had never thought to have again.

 

Had that been what had drawn him from his deathly slumber, that painfully bright evening? He thought it was; hoped it. So much had changed, so very quickly. He had spent so much time planning, plotting, _wanting, _that to suddenly find it all so easily accomplished was more shocking than failure. The hoary strength of the Bloodstone sang through his veins, making him cocksure, making it so hard to stop and _think—_but it addled him nowhere near as much as this. He'd never thought, never suspected... but this alone would have been enough. Enough for anything.

 

That smell. That sinuous, delectable scent that entwined itself with his very being, touching parts of him that so rarely stirred... a young woman in her prime was never without her charms, but _this_... he had almost forgotten what it was, to desire a woman so viscerally. A misbegotten, halfbreed thing had no true company but its own mule kind; there were so very few of them that he could never miss the presence of another.

 

It would have been enough to lure him back from the jaws of Hell.

 

He had crept downstairs, scarcely believing what his senses insisted must be true; that pure, luscious scent had pervaded the great hall as surely as it did his thoughts. He had stood, stunned, barely comprehending; might have stood so all the night, had he not been gifted with the sight of her fingers.

 

Never had he loved a door so fervently. She'd scraped herself, groping for entrance into the depths of his realm; everything that was already hers, had she but known. Those few scant drops of her life, carefully rescued from rusted metal; the sweet, clean, _fresh _taste of her on his fingertips... He knelt, overwhelmed with superstitious gratitude and base concupiscence.

 

By the time he realized that he had not so much as gazed upon her face, she was already gone.

 

In a panic, he had flown after her; the sun had sunk far enough beneath the horizon to allow him his utmost, and the heady smell of her guided him like a blazed trail. He had no real thought as to what he might do when he caught up with her—he had no great wish to take her on the leaf-strewn forest floor, rutting like a beast, but he was not certain he would be able to do anything else—but he only knew that he _must. _Her presence beckoned him onward, aching for completion—

 

It had never occurred to him that there were three of them.

 

The shock was enough to stop him in his tracks; he gazed after them, awestruck and confused. _All _of them? No; there was no such luck. One of them, yes, certainly, but which? He scented the night air, trying desperately to sift her essence from the damp forest loam and the gentle rot of vegetation, but it was impossible; that dreamy, intoxicating scent was all-consuming. Frustrated and dismayed, he clambered up the trunk of a spreading, ancient oak, and crept along the highway of branches as the trio made their way through the darkness, captivated with the puzzle they presented.

 

One of them was easy to dismiss; pretty enough, she was nevertheless pure peasant stock, as stolid and intractable as the dozens of generations of her ancestors he'd stalked before her. His eye was immediately drawn to the tallest of the trio. Dark-haired, her strong jaw and high cheekbones made her handsome, rather than beautiful, and would have rendered her out of place had it not been for the bright, keen interest with which she surveyed her surroundings. Of all the girls, she was the only one who took in the woods, carefully searching the night around them; she moved with an easy, self-assured grace, an untutored, kittenish predator. She was not oblivious; she was nervous, yes, but not frightened. He watched her ardently, his assurance growing; she was soft, weak, as all mortals were, but there was something there that most lacked. She might make a hunter; might be strong enough, sane enough. Even as he weighed and judged, his thoughts began to unfurl; the outlines of their future began to take shape in his mind, vague now, but enough to begin with—

 

Until the third one spoke.

 

He had been so lost in his imaginings that he had not actually heard her words. Some jest, he presumed, for the other two laughed in response; they chattered in the Anglo tongue, hard for him to follow. But her _tone—_he scrambled closer, sliding deftly from branch to branch for a better view. She was small, her figure lost in the bulky coat she wore, but her hair was golden enough to gleam even in the uncertain light that stole beneath the canopy of trees. She turned to address her companions, and her profile was enough to send a stab of longing through him; her features were sweet, smooth and rounded. She seemed only barely a woman.

 

But after centuries of observing human behavior, it was no great trick to see through to the heart of her. There was something weak about her; something wounded. He wondered that her companions accepted the heavy irony in her voice, the squared shoulders, the arrogant stride, at face value; it was so easy to see for the bluff it was. Her head was held high, and she carried herself erect, but there was still something half-hesitant about her movements; as if she hoped that by presenting a fierce enough facade to the world, no one would ever learn what terror lay beneath it.

 

Something dreadful had befallen her. He yearned to find out what it was. The damaged were so malleable; he would not have to work hard to break her to his will, as broken as she so clearly was already. He craved her so profoundly. The taste of her was haunting; he could not imagine how glorious her embrace would be. Someone so fraught with private dread might find him no great change; might yield to him, come to his hand; love him. All things that he needed from the mother of his heirs.

 

The scream tore through his reverie like a jagged blade; his startled gaze refocused on the girls to find the dark-haired one staring directly at him. He nearly cursed in shock; he had never guessed that even she would be perceptive enough to spot him. The peasant simply took to her heels, abandoning her friends without so much as a backward glance; the dark-haired one held his gaze for a moment, her expression frozen with horror, before she grabbed the object of his desire by the shoulder and hauled her bodily away, both of them stumbling through the forest as quickly as they could.

 

He was so startled that, for a moment, the thought of pursuit did not occur to him; by the time it had, he had already dismissed it. Let them go; let them convince themselves they had only been frightened by shadows in the trees. Let them convince their canny friend that there were no such things as he; let them be set against her, if she persisted in saying that there were. It was all to the good; they could only do his work for him. He knew who they were; the little scholars, who had caused such a stir with their poking and prying. His lips thinned back in a smile. It had never occurred to him that they might be women; perhaps she wrote Latin.

 

Perhaps he would ask her, when he called on her that night.

 

That night... even now, even here, it was enough to enervate him with bliss and scour him with rage. Lying in bed so enticingly, wound in her linens, she had been angelic; her face, her nude form, so softly limned in moonlight... he had been unable to restrain himself. It had seemed only right to set his fangs into the wound that fate had opened for him. She had scarcely roused to his attentions, but there had been no mistaking her soft, halting sounds of pleasure; her fingers had wound themselves lightly with his, as he lapped succor from her tender flesh, savoring her sorrow, her dread, her aching loneliness.

 

It had been torment to draw away from her; but he had known he must, and did so with as good a will as he could muster. A mortal lover was a delicate thing, so fragile, so dangerous; he would have to be able to content himself with the smallest of sips, the most tantalizing, tortuous of encounters. His lust for her would have to be guarded, both controlled and carefully nurtured, built up slowly over the years he'd have her for; when the night came that it could be finally, fatally slaked, he would be rewarded for his circumspection beyond measure.

 

And for them, there would be other pleasures.

 

He had knelt there, cradling her arm, trying to determine how best to avail himself of them—or even if he should, this first of all nights; there would be time, time for everything—when he heard the footfalls. He _knew. _

 

Stefan. Always Stefan. He should have _known._

 

He had fled. Inglorious, but not cowardly. He had hoped, somehow, that his brother might for once display the good sense to stay clear of things that were not his concern; he was more chagrined than displeased to learn that he had, once again, been wrong. It would be the last time; he would brook no further interference, and if that required Stefan's destruction, this would then be the end of him. He would be harried no longer.

 

It might have happened then, there, in the hallway, the site of so many previous deaths; Stefan was a sick, puling weakling, no match for him at his worst. But it would be so very difficult to explain if his inamorata were to be roused by the conflict; and there were so many better things to direct her attention towards.

 

Like tonight.

 

He had meant to finish the confrontation that had been preempted by the dawn, and to remove Stefan as an obstacle, once and for all... but even as he had set out on such a grave hunt, the night breeze had brought her scent to him like a siren's song. He had come to her as if he were panting after a bitch in heat.

 

Even now, he forced himself to stay perched on her balcony, the thin muslin curtains of her window as much a barrier between them as he could stand. The gatehouse was suffused with that incomparable perfume—such a change from days of old—so much so that even setting foot within was almost enough to render him drunk with callow, animal need. But he must not rush; must not harm her, or frighten her, if he could help it. Things would be as they must; but it would be so much easier if he could gain her favors willingly.

 

And if not... he leaned forward to press his head against the cool, gritty stone of the wall. She would learn to oblige. There were much worse things in the world than his ardor.

 

It was early yet; he had been surprised to find her in repose. Unless there was no surprise in it at all; unless she knew, and lay awaiting him. He braced his palms against the wall, pressing his tongue against the roof of his mouth in a futile attempt to quell his lust. It was too much to hope for; it was too attractive a prospect to entirely deny.

 

He could wait no longer.

 

Reaching out, he parted the curtains with one long, curved talon; it was the work of an eyeblink to slip inside.

 

He stood for a moment, simply inhaling the deep, female muskiness of her. She lay on her back, the covers pulled demurely up to her shoulders, but they couldn't obscure the rounded curves of her form. Her arms were flung wide, as if in welcome; her left arm dangled from the bed, her knuckles brushing the flagstones.

 

He slunk across the room, sinking to one knee at her bedside, and gently lifted her arm, resting it on his bent thigh. He frowned as his claws traced the dark, ominous bruise on her forearm; he could feel its sickly heat through his fingertips. He had been too forward; he had taken too much. He regretted his haste; he was already parched for another taste of her. But it was only a little thing, he insisted to himself, and not what he had come for tonight.

 

Her face was pallid, but easy in repose; her skin was cool and firm beneath his touch, and a faint smile curved the corners of her lips as he traced the curve of her jaw with the backs of his knuckles. He could not help but smile in return; if she would accept his caresses, she might well accept him.

 

Slowly, he trailed his fingers down her throat, touching her gently with his claws, and gratified by the gooseflesh they left in their wake. She shifted slightly, freeing her shoulders from the blankets; he obliged by hooking his fingers beneath their edges and drawing them down, exposing the heady swell of her bosom. She was dressed tonight in something filmy, but had half-shrugged out of it in slumber; it was no trouble at all to slide it further, baring her breast. He touched her lightly, almost hesitantly; her nipple tightened at his brief touch, pert and enticing.

 

“I thought so.” Her voice was soft, indistinct.

 

He forced himself to look up slowly, turning his head gradually to meet her gaze. If she was going to react—going to scream—but she only watched him, her expression curiously serene. Her eyes were still mostly closed with sleep, but they were feverish, watery. She was ill, and he was sorry for it.

 

But she did not seem distressed.

 

As she tilted her head, he recalled that the window was at his back; with the moonlight streaming in behind him, she could not make out much of him, save for the fact that he was truly there, and not the phantom lover she might have thought she'd imagined. She might have seen him last night; but he could not risk her seeing him now, not while he was so _close. _Struggling against his mounting desire, he lowered his head slowly, deliberately, and closed his mouth over her nipple.

 

She sighed, shifting slightly beneath him as he carefully circled the nub of flesh with the soft side of his tongue. He allowed himself to relax into the moment, her smell, her taste; the faint chemical undertone of some unguent she had applied, never understanding that nothing could compare to the flavor of her unadorned skin. He drew her nipple gently between his incisors, eliciting another sigh; he nearly gasped himself when her fingers stole up to wind their way into his hair, stroking his scalp. It was too much; he licked her, heedless, desperate for the feel of that delicate skin against the rasp of his tongue. She inhaled sharply, jerking in surprise; but before he could lift his head her fingers tightened around his hair, pressing him down.

 

He was already half in love.

 

Bolder now, he reached up to slide the strap of her gown from her other shoulder, his hand slipping down to cup her other breast as he continued to ply her with his mouth. Her skin was smooth, almost silken against the calluses of his palm; her free hand came to rest over his, squeezing. “Who are you?” she gasped.

 

Withdrawing slightly, he shrugged his coat from his shoulders, allowing it to slither to the floor as he rose to seat himself on the bed, letting his freed hair hang over his face. She looked up at him, eyes wide now, the tender bow of her lips half-open; she was flushed, her color almost hectic against the deep bronze of her hair.

 

He couldn't trust himself to kiss her throat, as deeply as he longed to; he settled instead for the curve of her jaw, nuzzling her ear, her sharp breaths hot against his neck. “Please,” she said, her fingers coming to rest on his thigh, as if of their own volition. “Please, who are you?”

 

_The one you've sought,_ he thought deliriously, as he leaned forward, _the one who has sought..._

 

He pushed her hair away from her face as he kissed her, as gently as he could manage, but the touch of her lips was nearly maddening. Her hands gripped his shoulders tightly, rigid with surprise; but as he tried to pull away, she caught his lower lip between her teeth, such a sweet ache that he scarcely noticed she had drawn him back until she released him. She'd raised herself on one elbow, and slipped her other hand around the back of his neck, kneading him with increasing fervor as their kiss deepened. Her mouth was hot and hungry, her tongue so soft against his lips he was almost hesitant to meet her, but he could not bring himself to deny such unexpected ardor.

 

He lapped her lightly with the tip of his tongue, unsurprised, if disappointed, when she pulled back. But he held himself still, allowing her to explore its roughness for herself, and with aching, earnest slowness, her passion began to build once more. He was undone, lost in the feel of her hand in his hair, his palms on her breasts, her flanks, the warm, sweet taste of her mouth—

 

She jerked away when she nicked her tongue on one of his fangs.

 

He clamped down on her wrist instinctively, already bereft of the brief, shocking taste of her blood; she gasped sharply, but did not struggle. She reached out to touch him instead, and he let her; her fingers brushed lightly against his lips, tracing the contours of the heavy tusks beneath. No matter what method she had deluded herself by, it had met its end; there would be no pretending that he was only a man any longer. He closed his eyes, unable to bear the sight of that realization sinking in; the dismay was enough to cool his passion. It had been so long since a woman had reached for _him—_but no matter. He kissed her fingertips lightly, slowly; enough to remind her, he hoped, that she had been enjoying herself, up until now... but not enough to keep her from drawing them away. He gritted his teeth, preparing for the caterwauling that was sure to ensue.

 

Instead, she kissed him.

 

He knew he had chosen well.

 

He wrapped his arms around her waist, lifting her up and pulling her close; she clasped his neck, responding eagerly. He let her sag, one arm bracing the small of her back, as he worked his way downwards. Not her throat—no—_no_—but her jaw, her shoulders, her clavicles, the luscious mounds of her breasts; he covered them all with kisses, licking and sucking, touching and caressing, driven ever onward by her sharp, panting gasps and ardent, clutching hands.

 

Finally, he could bear it no longer. Shifting his weight, he swung his legs up to kneel on the narrow bed; she drew back to make room for him, spreading her legs, and lifted herself eagerly to help him slide the tight, clinging material over her hips. He paused, almost worshipful, to regard the tawny hair between her thighs, already damp with her desire; he stroked the coarse curls lightly, before slipping a knuckle between her delicate folds. She whimpered, bucking lightly against him as her hands fisted the sheets. He raised his hand, his tongue darting out to sample her essence, as compelling in its own way as her blood. His eyes drifted closed as he found himself unable, for the moment, to do anything but savor her.

 

When he opened his eyes once more, she had raised herself slightly on her elbows; her expression was watchful, reverent. He'd turned, he realized, when he'd risen to join her in bed; the moonlight now picked him out in stark detail, finally revealing his features to her. Steeling himself, he sat back on his heels, raising his head and allowing his hair to fall behind his shoulders, so that she might see what had been pleasuring her.

 

Her eyes widened; a sharp intake of breath; she gazed at him wonderingly, disbelievingly. Slowly, he lowered his hand, letting the heel of his palm come to rest on the rise of her mons, and fanned out his fingers, his nails resting against the bottoms of her breasts. His lids drooped once more as he experienced a sudden sensation, so real it was almost a memory, of her flat navel swelling beneath his palm, round with his progeny, but he drove it away, forced himself to focus on her. She laid her hands lightly over his, feeling their narrowness, lingering over the extra knuckles as if to reassure herself that she was not imagining them; her fingertips traced the curves of his claws, pressing lightly against their tips.

 

He could read nothing untoward in her expression; and so he let his palm slide caressingly down to her side, his calluses snagging on the material of her gown before reaching the bare skin of her hip. He squeezed her gently; she let herself sink into the bed with a soft, breathy sigh.

 

The relief was so strong he could nearly taste it; and with that, he abandoned himself to the joys of the moment.

 

He shifted his weight, leaning forward to cover her, and she sighed anew at the brush of his hair against her breasts. Bracing himself on his knees, he reached down to unfasten his trousers as he continued to kiss her; it was a moment's effort to will himself to tumescence, all his extremities a-tingle at the unnatural change in pressure. It had been so long; no woman living had known his touch. She was no maid—how could she be, to welcome him like this?—but it did not disturb him; she was healthy and pliable, so yielding... so _warm_...

 

She gasped at the feel of him against her thigh; raised her parted knees to grant him better access. He sagged against her, shuddering at the first touch of her moisture; eager, rough in his sudden, unbearable haste, he plunged into her with a hoarse, choking growl. Her answering cry was bliss, but so enthused he fumbled a hand beneath her head and pressed her against his shoulder, muffling her descending moan. Her arms circled his shoulders as her calves wrapped around his waist; with that brief movement, his entry was complete.

 

For a moment he could do nothing but lie in her embrace; that tight, welcoming wetness was so hot it nearly scalded him, ablaze with life and lust. He'd forgotten... or he'd never known... he inhaled deeply, glorying in the dark, musky scent of her, the feel of her engulfing him, the desperation with which she clung to him...

 

Her fingers dug into his shoulder blades as he thrust into her, her nails scrabbling the leather of his vest for purchase. He nipped her ear sharply, earning a soft yelp, but it did nothing but spur her on; the dull sting of her nails scoring his back proved a piquant, intoxicating counterpoint to the delicious tautness beneath him. Her legs tightened around his hips, drawing him further in; her teeth sank into his bicep, stifling the short, sharp whimpers that punctuated his every movement.

 

He lost himself in her; her breath on his ear, her mouth on his, her hands fisted in her hair, urging him always onward. Sensations blended into one another until the world was nothing but touch, musk, movement, heat. But the building tension was inexorable, as much as he might have wished to prolong it; the increased urgency of her movements was undeniable. He moaned when she clenched around him, shuddering and throbbing; when she cried her release into his shoulder, he could do nothing but join her, a fierce, ecstatic paroxysm that rendered him insensible for an unknowable length of time.

 

When he returned to himself, it was to the heavy, ragged rise and fall of her chest beneath his; to the slow, sensuous slide of her thighs against him as she lowered them to the bed once more. Her fingers were still wound in his hair; she stroked the back of his neck feebly, idly, and he was overwhelmed by a sudden, aching tenderness for her. To simply lie in her arms, spent and satiated... he could think of little finer. He lowered his forehead to rest against hers, enjoying the puff of her breath against his throat, and closed his eyes.

 

Her kiss was soft, barely there, but the jab of pain it inspired made him realize that he must have scored his lower lip with his fang; and with that realization came the sharp, flat tang of his own blood in his mouth. He hesitated when she parted her lips, but quickly cast the worry aside; it made no real difference, now. His blood mingled with hers would only hasten the inevitable changes she would experience; could only serve to make her more of what she could be. He met her passionately, thoroughly—and was so enrapt he began to question his own wisdom. To lie with her like this, now, and feel her heartbeat slowing against him... to be the last thing she saw as she shed her mortality, the first, as she opened her eyes on a world undreamed of...

 

_No._ He broke away, turning his head to nuzzle her with his cheek, lest she realize how close she had come. He withdrew from her slowly, carefully, his disappointment in the loss echoed in her soft sound of dismay; but as he rolled onto his back, she quickly turned to face him, nestling her body against his. He slid an arm beneath her shoulders, tucking her head beneath his chin; she snuggled against him, laying a hand on his chest, giving every evidence of being perfectly content with her situation. He brushed a strand of sweat-damp hair aside to place a kiss on her forehead; she sighed happily, relaxing against him as her breathing slowed.

 

Relaxed and docile in his satiation, he let his eyes to drift shut, allowing himself to soak in the unexpected pleasure of a warm, breathing girl curled up to his side. The first night of many, yes, but there was a certain sweetness in her blind, unwavering acceptance; he stroked her hair, enjoying the simple intimacy of the gesture. Trust that would have to prove at least moderately well-founded; he'd have to see to her keep. He'd need to devise a way to feed her; she'd need books, a cat, clothes... something to occupy her days... a thousand things would have to be arranged, in a fairly short amount of time... it was a shame Otto had proven so recalcitrant.

 

Nor was it as if his legacy were entirely secure yet.

 

His lip curled involuntarily at the thought. This had proven to be the most pleasant of diversions, but it had lured him away from the errand he had set out on; a task grown to even greater stature, now that he knew exactly what lay in the balance. Stefan could not, _must _not, interfere with her.

 

He raised himself slightly on one elbow; she did not stir. He listened carefully to the slow, sonorous hiss of her breathing, the steady, even beat of her heart; she was already asleep. He smiled fondly at her easy trust, and vowed that it would remain unbroken, so long as she remained so biddable.

 

Moving with slow, careful precision, he eased her weight from his shoulder and lowered her gently onto the pillow; a brief frown creased her brow, but she lay undisturbed, drawing her knees up to her chest in a search for warmth. She was bone-white, save for the bright, hectic color of her cheeks; he really had taken too much from her. Grasping a corner of the coverlet, he drew it over her nude form, laying it gently over her hips.

 

Grabbing his coat, he took a moment to straighten his garments; he was having trouble mustering the keen, predatory rage he would need for this night's work. Perhaps the Bloodstone... but his eye fell on her bruise, nearly hidden in the crook of her arm. She was wilting, it was true, but... a taste... just enough to spark his ire...

 

He was on his knees beside the bed once more, gently easing her arm towards him, before he entirely realized that he had decided to do it. He circled the wound with a fingertip, listening carefully for a reaction, but she remained still. It was hot beneath his touch, but there was no whiff of infection... not good, no... but she had tasted his blood, had lain in his arms long enough for it to work its way through her. He brightened at the thought; it had been long and longer since he had encountered that fey, mingled elixir...

 

Just a taste.

 

The small lips of the cuts he'd already made parted anew beneath the gentle prodding of his fangs; the sensation was enough to win a faint groan from her, freezing his movements, but she did not stir. Carefully, so delicately, meticulously carefully, he laid his tongue over the holes, fastening his lips around the bruise.

 

And stopped, aghast at what he encountered.

 

He lapped at her, disbelieving; licked her again, roughly enough to scrape her skin. He raised his head and sank back on his haunches, looking between her face and her wound, trying to reconcile what his beleaguered senses insisted was true.

 

This was no preternatural admixture, nor was it the fresh essence of youth; this was the thin, wretched blood of the weak, the ill.

 

She was only dying.

 

He raised his fingers to his mouth to reassure himself of the wound, still fresh enough to be painful. He had bitten her; he had bled; she had tasted of him... but it had not taken. The woman he'd tasted might rise—surely would, after all he'd shared with her—but her being had not been set alight. There was no power in her, none of the dark fire he had sought, nothing to give her the sensuous, irresistible scent that had called him to her.

 

He'd been wrong.

 

It wasn't her.

 

The sick, gnawing sense of betrayal was enough to send him sinking to the floor. How could he—? How could _she?_ There was no mistaking that sense, the call of kith to kind... but it had not been hers. She had endeared herself to him under false pretenses; a trail laid terribly, appallingly wrong.

 

How could he have been _wrong?_

 

His thoughts raced as he struggled to make sense of this dreadful revelation. That aura, that mixture of power and possibility that drew him so magnetically was so _strong_ the very stones nearly vibrated with it. He'd been so _sure..._

 

It was one of the others. It had to be. They had been together when he had come upon them; they all slept here. He inhaled deeply, trying to sift the scents, but was once again utterly unable to do so. He had never, _never _encountered anything like this, not since leaving Circe's side... the sheer _presence _it would take to accomplish such a thing...

 

No wonder Stefan had been so close at hand; he had discerned it first.

 

The peasant girl, hiding her splendor in plain sight? The dark-haired one, clever enough to spot what couldn't possibly actually be there?

 

The possibilities were staggering.

 

He needed to attend to business.

 

He surged to his feet, the tails of his coat swirling around his calves. He looked down at the girl, scarcely able to bear the sight of her. What a fool he'd been. Had his hunter's instincts betrayed him, driving him towards the weakest of the pack by default? She had baited and lured him like a hound. What a waste. What an idiotic, foolish _waste. _

 

No. No, not entirely.

 

He sank to his knees, taking up her arm once more and, baring his fangs, began to finish what he'd started.


End file.
